Ghent potential first POV
Ghent Ghent wiped the blood from his mace. There had been a great battle today. And the day before, and every day before that. He had gone to battle nearly every day since he was old enough to carry a sword and shield. 35 years it had been. Boys from Hobble Hill were considered fit for war at age 10. All the other boys from his village had died long ago, most of them killed before their 11th year. But not Ghent. He lived for battle. He was old for a warrior; he had just entered his 45th year. He was an average sized man, but he was lean and fit, his face weather-worn and scarred from the blades of innumerable foes. He wore a shirt of heavy chainmail, pants of rough cloth, and tall leather boots. A chainmail hood covered the white hair atop his head. Over his mail he wore a cloth shirt of sky blue, adorned with a white lamb, the sigil of his King, Anders. Ghent did not fight out of loyalty to his King. In fact, he often secretly cursed the man, a fat drunk who preferred feasting to fighting. No, Ghent fought because he loved to fight. He loved to kill. He loved the smell of freshly spilled blood, and the sounds of battle. It had not always been this way. When he was a boy, the sounds and smells of war terrified him. When he had seen other boys from his village cut down in battle, he had wept. When enemies came for him, he found that he could kill, that he was strong, and he had not wept a day since. He knew that the war he fought in was pointless. He had realized this long ago. King Anders was one of many Kings from the same line who fought constantly over former imperial territory. When the last emperor died, a great war of succession between his many sons began. For 300 years 30 small Kingdoms led by 30 foolish kings had warred constantly, none of them making any significant gains. What cultural and scientific gains that had been made by the empire were long lost. Indeed, in his 45 years Ghent had seen the population of the Kingdoms shrink, and many of the great artistic works of the empire had been looted or destroyed. Generations of young men had lived and died at war. Ghent had slain many of them himself. So terrible was the war, that he had outlived all of his sons. Brennar, his first, had been killed by an arrow through his eye socket. Dolgan, his second, had died in agony from an infected wound. His third son, Marten, was a sweet gentle boy, who loved to sing and play the lute. A pox took him before his 8th year. Ghent had not smiled since. But he still fought. Ghent raised his head and sniffed the air. The scent of fresh blood had faded, replaced by the smell of rotting flesh… and… something else. A sickening sound filled the air, a gurgling, wet moan. In the distance he saw him. The Dread Necromancer of the killing marshes. The figure was too far away to make out distinctly, but Ghent knew it was him. A tall, black cloaked figure that seemed to glide above the ground. An army of the dead shambled behind him, as he raised more freshly killed warriors for his undead horde. Ghent froze, paralyzed with fear. He feared no man but this dark sorcerer was no man. He had witnessed him leech the life out of one of his comrades, leaving his dried husk of a corpse to rot in the marshes. On that day he knew true fear, and he knew he could never withstand the cold grasp of this… necromancer. Death himself he had heard some men call him. Other men from Hobble Hill had returned home not long after the battle. Ghent had lingered, to revel in the slaughter. “Too long” he thought to himself. He turned and began the journey back to Hobble Hill.